Chapter Two

If this life was supposed to be a second chance, it was a piss-poor one.

Especially during the summers that brought on infestations of fleas and lice—but mostly fleas, thankfully. No, not thankfully—it was just that they were the lesser evil. Easier to get rid of.

But no less itchy.

"Mitsubaaa," Kawarama's nasally voice, perfect for whining, floated in from the veranda as he climbed up and plopped down on its edge. Not entering the room, no, because she'd already cleaned it and yelled Hashirama into a spiraling faux-depression when he'd come to her seeking a quick fix for the parasite itch with dirt-covered clothes. Kawarama, when he'd gotten wind of her growing talent with folk remedies, warmed up to her damn fast…and also heeded her warning glares without protest.

Of her four brothers, he was the strangest. The second youngest, born soon after Tobirama and not even a full year before Mitsuba and Itama, he greatly resembled the former with a spiky mop of fair hair and cold, blank expression—well, except when he opened his mouth. But, unlike Tobirama, and just like the other siblings, he had brown eyes. And unlike any of his siblings, he sported an x-shaped scar across his right cheek.

A memento from the battlefield—earned from their most recent training campaign. Still covered in the bandage and salve she'd patched over it the previous day.

But, Kawarama…he was the strange one because she hadn't really known anything about him, beforehand. Only that he'd die on that god damned battlefield at a heartbreaking seven years old.

Looking toward the closed door, where the sunlight projected his shadow on the latticed shoji screen from behind, he looked impossibly small.

Looking at his dopey face as he picked his nose the moment she slid open the door, he looked impossibly dumb.

He smiled vacantly as he flicked away a booger and set his hands on his crossed legs. "Ah! There you are. Hashi-bro said the flea repellent you gave him worked really great. Have some more to spare?"

Hashi-bro? Could one really be so casual in this era?

Mitsuba squinted at him with her mouth half-open as she tried to comprehend it—comprehend him. All the while, he smiled, swaying slightly to the side. Scratching his fingers through his hair, with one eye scrunched up.

Sort of…like a puppy.

"I do. Just wait there." It was a challenge, holding back from rolling her eyes at the sight, but somehow she managed it as she turned away from the open doorway and made her way to the small closet storage space where she kept her tools of the trade.

It was nothing impressive. Just a small, lidded rectangular basket Kanae had provided when she'd realized how serious her interest in herbal medicine had become. She'd even gone so far as to request a "starter kit" of sorts from the visiting physician for her. Whether said physician was a medic-nin or just a civilian practitioner, Mitsuba didn't know, but he used what connections he had to provide her with a bundle of herbs and a mortar and pestle. Not all local—some were imported, it seemed, like the familiar rosemary and basil, or maybe they'd made their way to this land as an invasive species.

(Even now, she had little knowledge of how accurately the shinobi world reflected the culture it was based on, or whether it was all a mixed-up and bastardized smorgasbord all its own, already affected by worldwide trade and a fictional touch.)

He'd even provided a scroll detailing the things her field guide hadn't, though she still had little idea of how to interpret the more complicated kanji characters without asking her mother.

Kanae, no matter how good her intentions were, was not the best language teacher.

But, that aside, Mitsuba had slaved over a hot stove and, through much trial and error, mixed up a salve that kept the fleas at bay and even soothed the bites they left behind. She kept a big, ceramic jar of it in the front of her basket and transferred scoops of it into smaller jars to share with those in need.

At some point, Kawarama had quietly padded into the room to watch her work—her heart leapt into her throat as she turned around and came face-to-face with him, crouched down to look past her shoulder.

"Kawarama! I asked you to do one thing!" Small jar clutched tight in one hand, she reached out to push him back outside—and she knew he let her, because she was small, and he was a trained shinobi.

"Sorry, sorry! I just wanted to see!" he laughed out, obediently returning to his place outside as her small hands insistently shoved at the middle of his back. "You work so hard, Mitsuba. We barely get to see you! Aside from Itama." His smile fell. "Do you hate us or something?" Then, as an aside, he mumbled, "Where is Itama, by the way? I haven't seen him all day…"

"No. Of course not. Don't be dumb. Itama's just…clingy."

"So if I was clingy, too, you'd quit hating me?" Kawarama grinned again, and held his arms out as if to hug her before her glare pinned him in place and the outstretched jar caught him in the chest.

"I said I didn't." And it was true. She didn't hate them, or love them.

It was just easier keeping them at arm's length.

"And change that bandage, already! Jeez."

"Hmm…I don't really get you, Mitsuba, but..." He took the little jar from her hands and reached out to quickly muss her neatly-brushed hair into tangles. "Thanks!"

The door barely missed him as he jumped outside with a childish giggle.

Mitsuba stared hard at the latticed screen with her hands set firmly on the door frame, seething, until a gentle, nervous laugh sounded behind her. She closed her eyes and reached up to smooth down her hair, fingers tugging apart the newly-formed knots.

"Am I really clingy?"

"Yeah. Like a baby. I'm the youngest one here."

"Ehehe… Sorry, Mitsu. But I like being around you. It's calming."

"Calming?" she repeated, turning to face Itama with a skeptic quirk of her eyebrow, wondering what his definition of the word could possibly be.

He folded his hands, wringing them together as his light gray haori sleeves slipped over them. It was too big for him—she'd offered, insisted, so many times to take up the hem after she realized she'd sewn it the wrong size, but he always refused. He liked it as it was. But it was sloppy.

So was his obi, loose and not tied properly at all, just as skewed as his kimono top.

With a silent sigh breathed through her nose, she shuffled across the tatami mats and prompted him to raise up his arms. She took hold of the faded olive-green obi and worked on securing it properly around his waist and just, in general, straightening up his outfit so he looked halfway presentable. He didn't speak during her fussing; only smiled in that meek and adorable way of his that always softened her heart.

But, being so close, she realized he wasn't nervous about what she'd said at all.

Peppered all across the front of his clothes were short, bristly little hairs. Almost invisible against the fabric unless the light caught them just right.

Animal fur.

No—not just any animal. She knew that musky, earthy wet-clay smell, and it was all over him.

He'd been hugging a dog. A downright luxury in a world like this.

"Itama," she began, picking off a tuft of the beige and orange-red dog fur and squinting hard at it, "what did you do today?"

"Oh, uh—y'know! Just the usual. Practice kata, with Hashirama, Tobirama, and Kawarama…" He leaned away, cheeks blushing pink as he struck up the little white lie. As if that would throw her off the trail.

"Kawarama said he hadn't seen you all day." She caught his eyes.

His cheeks flushed deeper, eyes drifting away from her scrutinizing stare. "Wha—! Well, maybe I was wrong. It was only the other two."

"Hmm. Really? Hashirama came by earlier, too."

His jaw dropped, perpetually half-lidded eyes that mirrored hers shooting open wide. "Well, Tobirama—!"

"Has been with Mom all day." Mitsuba gripped the front of his haori and leaned in close, expression deceptively calm, until their noses almost touched. "Just show me where the dog is, already."

"N-no! It doesn't have fleas, I promise! I-I didn't bring them in!" His feet shuffled on the floor as he tried to take a step back, but he didn't break free of her grip. He did, however, hold his hands up in surrender.

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't care about the fleas. I just wanna see the dog."

Please be a Shiba Inu, please be a Shiba Inu, please be a Shiba Inu!

His worry melted away, replaced by a bright grin. "Really?! Aw, Mitsu, I didn't know you like dogs!" He leaned forward and threw his arms around her, crushing her arms between them before she could let go of his clothes, getting the dog fur all over the front of her kimono, too.

"C'mon, just follow me!" He dropped the hug after smushing his cheek against hers and grabbed for her hand, dragging her out into the hallway, through their home to the main entrance to grab their sandals, and then outside. All in a winding path that led to the back of the compound and behind one of the three buildings present—the unoccupied meeting hall, well away from prying eyes from their family and the sentry alike.

He stopped right in front of a clump of oh-so-inconspicuous bushes that pressed up close to the stone wall that surrounded the area and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

It just screamed bad idea.

"Itama—"

He held a finger up to his lips and shushed her, eyes pleading.

With a shrug, she pulled her hand free from his as he crouched down beside the bushes, moving aside one of the boughs to reveal a makeshift tunnel that led into a broken crag of the perimeter wall.

…Straight out into the surrounding forest.

"Itama," she hissed again, grabbing him by the back of his obi and yanking him back so hard he fell flat on his ass. "What are you doing?!"

He rubbed at his tailbone and actually, honestly, glared up at her. That was a first.

"Taking you to see the dog, remember? What, did you think I'd really bring it into the compound? Dad would never let me! And Mom's allergic…" A pout overtook his frowning mouth.

God.

God.

Kids would be kids, no matter the circumstances. Finding and keeping a secret pet in the woods, even smack in the middle of such dangerous times.

Mitsuba reached out and snagged his arm, fully intent on dragging him right back home because, dog or not, there was no way they were going out there in secret, alone. Even if he was a shinobi.

Especially because he was a shinobi.

He pulled his arm away, still pouting, but this time he unleashed the crocodile tears. They welled up in the corners of both eyes as his lips trembled. "I didn't even show our brothers. I…I thought you would understand, Mitsu."

"I do, but—I just…" She stared into the shadowed tunnel of shoved-aside, scratchy leaves and prickly branches, and peered further out into the unknown. It beckoned them out in that strange, tempting way bad ideas had a way of doing, tamping down reason in exchange for adventure and, well, dogs.

Dammit, dogs.

She closed her eyes and held them together tight before opening them once again.

"…Do you have a kunai?"

He nodded, reaching toward his waist and to a spot she'd been sure she hadn't felt a weapon in when she'd re-tied it for him. Then again, he should know how to hide his weapons.

A smile instantly took hold of the corner of his lips as her worry translated itself into something he could understand. "Don't worry, Mitsu. I'll protect you!"

He said it with all the confidence of a naïve child unaware of his heavy fate, not fully comprehending the vicious ways of the world and how promises like that only got people killed.

Even so, he crouched down on his hands and knees and crawled through the bushes, his hushed voice calling for her to follow.

Idiot…you don't need to protect me.

The thought went unspoken, lost to the summer breeze, as she sent a searching glance around the area, toward the back corner of the building and its closed doors, half-hoping someone had spotted their shenanigans and would come running and shoo them back to the main house. Tobirama. Maybe Kanae. Even Butsuma But, no, it was too far out of the way, out of sight, lost to the world, and he was already on the other side, whisper-yelling for her to hurry up.

She followed.

At some point along the way, as they clomped across plush grass and dry dirt and between the tall, tall trees that seemed to stretch up higher than she remembered (and much farther than she'd expected them to go), he'd grabbed her hand to keep her from walking too far ahead, or falling too far behind. She didn't really hold it back, but he didn't let go. His other hand, he kept close near his obi—near a weapon. Just in case.

"How much farther?" she asked, voice low, eyes wandering out in front of them, in between the trees, and over her shoulder behind them, where the shadows the sun didn't quite reach took on nefarious and wicked shapes in a jumpy, paranoid mind.

"Just a little more!"

A little, just a little, she wished the cheer in his voice was infectious. That it would ease the worry from her mind and let this just be a stupid and carefree kid's adventure. But every twig that snapped, every tiny creature claw that scratched and scurried against the tree bark echoed in her ears like the cocked hammer of a gun about to shoot.

Were they alone?

"No—" she said sharply, stopping in her tracks and yanking his arm back as he tried to move forward. "We shouldn't have left. I wanna go back. Let's go back! Mom's gonna be mad. Dad's gonna be mad."

You might die. I don't want that on my conscience. The dog's not worth it.

Now, she gripped his hand hard in hers just to keep him from walking ahead.

"Ow—Mitsu, come on. We're almost there. We'll go back right away, I promise." He gave a half-hearted pull at her hand as he turned to look at her, brow furrowed.

"No."

"Mitsu…" His whine trailed off into a sigh as she didn't take a step, didn't let up on that iron grip.

"How do you even know it'll be there?" she challenged, keeping her small, small feet firmly on the ground even as he tugged at her arm. Half-hearted, because she was convinced he could pick her up and just carry her if he wanted to.

Even with the flicker of irritation that passed across his face, he remained patient. His eyes drifted toward his feet as he answered her with a shrug, not even needing the next words. "I…I don't know."

Every passing minute left them vulnerable.

"Let's just go back home."

His shoulders drooped when he peered up at her furrowed brow and determined frown. Both were unwilling to budge on the matter. And in that silly and proud, competitive way that only children and people who believed they were unquestionably right could be, neither backed down first.

They could have stood that way for hours, or for just a moment. But either way, it had to end.

The thing that ended it was a sharp rustle of leaves that no small animal could be responsible for.

Itama's hand dropped away from hers faster than a shot, and the kunai appeared instantly in his grip. He held the other hand out to shield her as he scanned the area for the source, keeping close, and ready to fight.

Brave, but foolish.

They should have left at a moment's notice, to enjoy the rest of the day in peace—it was a beautiful day.

In another life, on a day like this, she'd be bumming a cigarette off the cute lady next door and sunbathing on a stolen moment in which she should be manning the front of her father's stupid, musty old joke of a pawn shop while he operated under the table in the back, unaware she'd locked up and flipped the sign to CLOSED.

She shouldn't be out in the wild, fearing for her life with her brother.

Again, the leaves shook, rattling dry in the underbrush.

Even as Mitsuba's brain screamed that she was the adult, she was the adult, dammit, she pressed close to her brother's back, hands gripping the back of his haori tight enough to leave permanent wrinkles she'd never be able to straighten out.

Another rustle—then, silence.

A whiny, yelping yip echoed in the air around them. Pattering paws approached.

Mitsuba's head shot up to peek over Itama's shoulder as he lowered the kunai with a relieved, whooshing breath and a laughing cry of, "look, Mitsu, it's the doggy!"

Her eyebrows scrunched together as she pinched him through his clothing so hard that he yelped, too.

"Itama! That's a fox!"

Of the two times they'd both leave the compound's safety in pursuit of something, this one was the least eventful.

Summer gave way to autumn in a gradual flurry of colored leaves and a cooling breeze that brought on chilled nights, tightly-shut doors and screens, and many hours near the indoor hearth's warm coals…and the vicious return of Kanae's sickness.

She made it to Mitsuba and Itama's fourth birthday, but she didn't last to the end of the season.

Winter hit them colder than ever.

"Mitsuba-sama! Are you paying attention? Straighten out your back."

Kanae's passing left need for a new mentor in Mitsuba's life. And, apparently, the only woman suitable for the clan leader's sole daughter was Mariko, a strict and domineering old woman tall as a willow tree and withered as a dead one, with wispy gray hair tied up in a high twist and a penchant for demanding absolute perfection.

Well, at least she was a better teacher.

Mitsuba squirmed into a better seiza posture as the woman hovered over her like a buzzard, though her attention was still far away. Well, technically it could never be closer. But it was focused inward, so deep she may as well have been somewhere else, mentally.

Her mother's death, no matter that it brought few tears to her eyes, brought forth opportunity.

Chakra thrummed in her veins. Squirming within its shell, ready to break free. More than once, her calligraphy paper had stuck fast to her fingertips (though she'd excused it away by saying she'd only forgotten to wash her sticky hands after lunch, and Mariko grudgingly believed it).

Mariko clucked her tongue and took a step back, pressing a hand dramatically to her forehead. "Even the boys have better posture than you, child. You do want to grow up and be worthy of a husband, do you not?"

"Yes, Mariko."

"Hmm?"

"Yes, Mariko-san," Mitsuba emphasized, because the woman just wouldn't let her lack of manners slide.

Sometimes she just wondered if that was all the woman had to nitpick her on, since her basic sewing skills had long since been mastered, carried over from a past life. Her tea preparation was passable, and she completely skipped flower arrangement since she occupied herself with herbal studies and flower pressing instead. Other than that, her handwriting was too scrawly, at times, like chicken scratch written in haste so, really…the woman did indeed have to grasp at straws and find a new angle.

By turning her into proper, elegant, obeisant wife material.

She'd be working at that forever.

"Okiku, show the girl how it's done."

Okiku—or Kiku, as she usually called her, was a young girl a handful of years her senior, probably at twelve or thirteen. Pretty, with long, dark hair she sometimes let Mitsuba brush and braid before Mariko came along and slapped her hands for neglecting her studies. But quiet as a mouse. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes often flitted about, restless, and she jumped at loud, sudden noises and kept mostly to the corners. She listened to Mariko's every word, and never disobeyed.

(Though Mariko was considerably more lenient with her than anyone else.)

She also wasn't a Senju—not an Uchiha, either. Mitsuba wasn't sure if she'd ever belonged to a clan, or if she'd just…been picked up.

But she liked her. And so did Touka, who'd been tasked with guarding her in her brothers' and fathers' absence. She rarely sat in during lessons, but she was always around. Somewhere.

Kiku rose up quickly from her corner, her wound-up hair flouncing with each step until she knelt down in front of Mitsuba and sat with her knees together, back straight as a pin, hands folded neatly in the lap of her gray and gold kimono. Dotted with puffy, threaded yellow chrysanthemums, just like her name.

"There's a good girl. Now, Mitsuba-sama, take note and follow her example."

With a brief roll of the eyes—which Mariko caught, and pursed her sour, shriveled lips at—Mitsuba pushed back her shoulders and set her hands in her lap, too, lips pursed to one side. Her form wasn't as slender or elegant as Kiku's, still pudgy with baby fat, but, well, at least her back was straight now.

She closed her eyes and held the position, counting the seconds in her head as the old vulture circled around her with slow, deliberate footsteps, analyzing her posture.

"It's a definite improvement. Hold it for the next ten minutes."

Her eyes snapped open. "Wha—"

Mariko held up a silencing hand. "Oh, you moved—start over. Ten minutes, now."

With lips pressed tight together to prevent from screaming out an entire fucking river of expletives she didn't even know, she straightened her back once more and wished she was anywhere else.

Fuck you, old hag.

By the time ten minutes were up, her knees were sore, and her legs were asleep, buzzing with static. But the day's lessons had concluded.

"For a girl claiming she'll become a shinobi, you certainly can't tolerate much routine."

Touka's veiled, sly sarcasm fanned out in the cold air in front of them and drifted past her ear. She leaned against said girl's arm, using her as a crutch until the feeling returned to her wobbling feet while they crossed the dry, frozen courtyard, heading back to the main house.

Touka was only a bit taller, and a bit older, around Hashirama's age, but far less tolerable at times. Maybe because she saw her as a spoiled, bratty, mouthy little princess—the gem of the clan.

Truthfully, she just liked to make fun of her.

Mitsuba angled her head up at the girl's sharp-featured face and narrow eyes, unable to catch her stare but catching sight of the faint smirk on her thin lips. The wind blew at her high, pin-straight ponytail, let down from its usual stern topknot, and both briefly flinched at the cold, sharp bite.

She couldn't put a valid retort into words.

Her thin eyebrows, tapered, not thick like Mitsuba's, and scarred at one corner, drew together as she looked down to see the exaggerated pout. "Oh, come on, don't pout. I was only joking; you've been making such decent progress with the leaf concentration exercise."

"Hmm. I guess. But is it enough…"

This time, Touka didn't reply. Only wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulders as they clambered past the front door and quickly slid it shut against the cold. "It's probably going to snow again," she muttered, folding her hands together and blowing warm air onto them to heat them up. "I'll take care of the fire pit. Go get your leaves."

Mitsuba kicked off her sandals and padded down the hallway to retrieve her field journal, where she'd hidden away numerous leaves between the pages before the season had turned. A cute, feminine hobby disguising an ulterior motive.

One that she'd shared with Touka, and only Touka. Because she seemed like she'd understand—and everyone needed a friend to trade secrets with. It paid off well. Through her, she'd learned just where her brothers kept their secret weapons stash. And she was so, so easy to talk to, even with her habitual, playful derision.

When she reached the edge of her bedroom—the one she'd shared with Kanae once, now so cold and closed-off, abandoned—she stopped, idling in the doorway, fingers still resting on the sliding door. Even after she'd moved further into the house, away from the cold and the memories, and into another room she now shared with Touka, she couldn't bring her herb box with her. Because only Kanae's room had a storage closet where she could shove it away in a corner, out of sight, so no one would go snooping.

Steely, blue-white light filtered in from the closed screens, bathing the wide-open space in a ghostly glow. Illuminating the faint, silvery threads that lined Kanae's favorite, deep blue kimono, that now hung loose and open from a rack in the corner, arms outstretched as if waiting for a hug that would never come.

If spirits ever did come back from the dead, she was certain Kanae's had returned here.

She ran her fingers through the long chunks of hair that hung down to the edges of her face—too short to stay up in the bun wound atop her head like a ball of yarn, but not long enough to really bother with—as if straightening the tangles, making herself presentable in her mother's presence.

No. That was stupid. She shook her head hard and clenched her small hands into fists as she strode into the room with purpose, straight to the closet.

Kanae's old futon had been folded up and shoved inside—and under it was the box she came for.

She left without looking back. Not quite brave enough to face the woman whose heartfelt plea she'd completely pissed on.

I'm sorry, but…I'm not your daughter, Kanae.

By the time she made her way to the center room, where Touka had indeed started up the fire pit and filled the space with warm, toasty heat, she'd already stuck one of her pressed leaves to her forehead. It slipped off halfway there, sure, but she put it right back on and that's how Touka saw her.

"Did you keep that there the entire time?" she asked, a single eyebrow quirked as she crossed her arms and tilted her head.

"Well, no, just a couple seconds, but still. It's something, right?"

For a moment, she stared. Her eyes searched her face, and the leaf sticking weakly to her skin.

"…Earlier, you asked if it was enough. I didn't answer then, but I don't think it is. Not if you want to make a formal request to Uncle. You need to be able to control your chakra and not rely on chance."

God, she was so smart and she wasn't even ten, yet.

Mitsuba looked down at her hands—at the leaf that had slipped away from her forehead once again. "Alright. I can feel it, and sort of direct it when I focus hard, so…how do I get better at focusing?"

"During my training, I learned how to regulate the chakra flow through meditation. Clear your mind of worry and focus only on clear skies and victories of a distant future."

"Distant future. O-kay."

"You asked."

"Not judging."

Touka held up her hand, index finger pointing skyward, and smiled. "Once you learn to focus properly and hold the leaf in place for ten minutes, you'll be ready to approach Uncle."

A disgusted scoff left Mitsuba's mouth as she shoved aside her bangs and pressed the leaf to her bare forehead once again.

It took a full week to master the lesson.

But in that time, her family had returned from the battlefield.

She was prepared to speak with her father.

Butsuma was a busy man.

Not only as clan leader, but as an active shinobi. Even when he was at his home territory, he never quite stopped giving orders and overseeing the compound's activities. He was so busy, in fact, that he never set foot in the main house.

Then again, Mitsuba couldn't recall that he'd ever lived there when Kanae had been alive.

After asking Kawarama, she found their father holed up in the meeting hall alone, poring over a series of scrolls and marking down something-or-other on a map filled with a handful of notable clan crests in strategic locations. She didn't get a decent look at it—he rolled it up tight and set it aside, leaning one arm against the low table set in front of him as his disgruntled gaze turned to her. He didn't need to speak to let her know he didn't appreciate the interruption.

She knelt to the floor without a word.

In prim and perfect seiza, of course. Had to make a good impression.

She couldn't really remember speaking to her father before this. He'd always been present, but distant. Even at Kanae's funeral, he scarcely spoke a word to anyone. Only sent her a glance in passing and nod, like he didn't know what else to do.

Her eyes drifted toward the lantern burning at the edge of his table, lighting up the area in place of the outdoor light, dimmed by closed doors during their struggle against the cold.

That morning, the clan had woken up to a dusty powdering of fresh snow blanketing the frozen earth. Mitsuba even still wore a pale coral-colored scarf close around her neck, courtesy of Kiku.

If she watched the screen close, she could see the shadows of tiny snow flurries that still fell outside. Just a bit, she wished spring would come early—to melt it all away.

Her eyes returned to his.

She wasn't supposed to speak first—Mariko had all but beaten that lesson into her. Even so, her hands clenched and unclenched in her lap as she fought down the request that was bubbling up within her like a soda bottle shaken too much, ready to just burst.

"Mitsuba," he finally acknowledged, staring her down with chilled, unfeeling eyes that did nothing to put a damper on her enthusiasm. "It isn't often we speak. What brings you here?" He spoke through a tense jaw, like the words were forced and he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"I…" Her words died on her tongue as she heard her tiny, high-pitched child's voice and had to wonder how stupid she looked, sounded; a pipsqueak kid with a big head and a serious expression, playing at being an adult in that small body. Would he listen? Would he even listen?

I want what my brothers have. What Touka is allowed to do. What Kanae wouldn't let me choose.

She closed her eyes and held her tongue. There were better words that weren't those, banging around in her head like a coffee mug thrown into a washing machine, bouncing and breaking into smaller and sharper and more persistent pieces.

"I've learned to focus my chakra, Father. I want to be a shinobi."

"No."

When she looked at him again, his expression had hardened, the bland, passive slush freezing into the hard, dry ice of sharp anger. Every exhausted, premature stress line etched into his face drew taut, and he looked old, so old, despite still being so young. And even in his anger, when he sat here, so casually, without armor, with his dark hair hanging limp and loose and scraggly, he looked so suddenly huge. Impassable.

A massive mountain, standing in her way.

"No?" she questioned in a quick breath, and that was her first mistake. In the Senju clan, his word was law.

"Give up pursuing foolish fancies. You will never become a shinobi."

He may as well have slapped her.

The lantern light burned in the corner of her vision, but she kept her eyes focused fully and unblinkingly on him, holding her head high. "I can hold a leaf on my forehead for ten minutes. My chakra is—"

"Mitsuba!"

He slammed his hand on the tabletop along with the shout and, against her better judgment, she jumped at the noise. Pressed her lips together tight and rose sharply to her feet, hands still clenched into fists—shaking.

"Why?" she bit out, so bitter that he almost flinched, because she'd always been so, so demure, playing the good child. "Why can't I? Because Mom didn't want me to? I'm your daughter, too! Teach me ways to protect myself, at least!"

When he didn't speak, still stricken by her outburst, she continued her tirade. It still didn't match up to the words in her heart, but her vocabulary had grown, and she could lash out better than ever.

"I don't understand! If this is the life you wanted to—to lock me into, why did you even save me?"

Butsuma's teeth gnashed together before his lips closed over them, pressing tight. She didn't think his eyebrows could furrow any more than they had, yet they'd drawn so low over his eyes that the dark irises were almost pinpricks.

Then, all at once, the anger vanished. Replaced by that cold and stoic shinobi façade.

"I didn't do it for you."

Because of that detached look, those words struck her right in the heart. Pierced through. Shredded. As if physically stabbed, she took a step back.

Then—then, he dealt the coup de grâce.

"I did it for Kanae."

Unwanted. You were born an unwanted child. No man with four sons would ever need a daughter. Only a mother would.

Tears burned hot and fast in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks as she bit her lip so hard it broke skin.

You worthless savior.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you I HATE YOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU—

Butsuma turned away, attention returned to the scrolls on the table, breathing a weary sigh. "You are far too emotional to become a shinobi, Mitsuba. All you can do is learn to become a good wife."

She didn't bother closing the door behind her as she stormed out into the snow, running—running. Wishing she could run forever, until her lungs gave out. Wishing circumstance and too many unfortunate factors all bundled together without her say hadn't trapped her in this godforsaken place, as damned as a wildflower ripped from the soil, dumped into a glass vase.

Then—she stopped. Let her heaving lungs expel fogged clouds of breath as she squeezed her eyes shut and scrubbed the tears away until her skin burned and froze in turn against the chilled air. It pricked at her eyes as she stared down at her numbing hands, fingers flexing, trembling.

She didn't need his permission. Never did. When it's time came, spring never asked winter to thaw.

She'd grant her own wishes, and…

She'd prove him wrong.

NOTES: For those who don't know, I have a tumblr: peccolias. tumblr .com –check it out if you like occasional news about fics and writing in general and lots of other stuff! As always, thanks so much to all for reading and reviewing!